


The Matter Of Miss Abernetty's Marriage (1900)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [187]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Deception, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Forced Marriage, Gay Sex, Heroes & Heroines, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Rescue, Scheming Sherlock, Sherlock in Panties, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 18:39:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11674863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The second-most requested of our previously unpublished cases, the affair of the Abernetty family and how far the parsley sank into the butter. Sherlock at his best - and worst!





	The Matter Of Miss Abernetty's Marriage (1900)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



It was typical of my friend that, after the conclusion to this case, Sherlock apologized profusely and promised me that I should not have to include it amongst the adventures that I wrote up for our readers. However, with the passage of time I have (just about) forgiven him for what he did, and am including it to show just how devious a bastard he could be when he put his mind to it. It took me some time to forgive him, but he could be very persuasive when the need arose. It took him three whole days, mind, and me a further two to recover!

Yes, there was pie as well.

No, I am not that predictable.

Shut up!

+~+~+

There were, as my readers may have guessed, several cases where Sherlock's involvement came about because someone involved was related to a person from a previous case; I think immediately of Mrs. Cecil Forrester, whose domestic travails followed on from the case concerning her then future husband's father, and the massive Mr. Vulcan Iden-Goring, who referred his brother Hephæstus to us over the Bourne case. Oddly enough it was another set of unusual names that led into what was undoubtedly the most famous case not to make the original set of my great friend's adventures, in the wonderfully named Mr. Ptolemy Seleucus Antiochus Wilson, the district messenger whom my friend had helped only recently. Readers will remember that Sherlock had helped both his teenage brothers find employment, and that had led to.... well, events. 

Apart from his youth - I knew he was barely twenty years of age - Mr. Lysander Theseus Pericles Wilson was the very epitome of the English butler, I thought, as the young blond fellow sat in the famous fireside chair in Baker Street. And nothing like his elder brother; Mr Lysander was taller and verging on debonair, his eyes almost as blue as Sherlock's own. The fact that he had brought a copy of my latest book, detailing several of the cases since Sherlock's return (with illustrations) showed remarkably good taste, compounded by the fact he also had the latest edition of the “Strand” magazine with the final installment of our fateful (and nearly fatal) adventure at Thor Bridge in it. 

“I can see by the expression on the doctor's face that he does not consider that you have given us much to go on”, Sherlock smiled. “A small piece of herbage following the laws laid down by the great Sir Isaac Newton – it seems only natural. But let us go through the sequence of events, such as they are, and see what we can see. Tell us about your employers.”

"I know from your stories", our visitor said, "that the good doctor is fond of the occasional glance at the social pages of the newspapers."

One cough! One single cough, and I was not putting out for a week! Probably.

"I mention that because of the events surrounding the unlucky Lord Selhurst", our visitor said.

Sherlock looked inquiringly at me, not-smirking far too loudly. I resisted the urge to glare at him. Just.

"It was a major scandal from some two months ago", I said coolly, still watching my friend for any reaction. "Lord Selhurst divorced his wife and announced his intention to leave for the United States, after it was discovered that she and their butler had... you know."

"No, John", said a blue-eyed bastard n the vicinity, "we do not _know_. Lady Selhurst and the butler did what?" 

"You tease the poor doctor so", said the one person I was glad to have in the room just then. "What you may not know is that several of Lord Selhurst's staff resigned at the same time just as the story broke, and as he was my employer Lord Rotherfield's brother-in-law, he transferred some of his staff over, including me. I was acting butler for two months before a permanent replacement could be found, and I liked the post so much that Lord Rotherfield very kindly agreed to provide a reference for me to go and work for some friends of his, the Abernetty's."

"I am glad to hear that you were so fortunate", Sherlock smiled. "Where do your employers live, pray?"

“A place called Whitsun House, near Alexandra Palace”, he said. “It is a most exclusive area, and the family is quite rich. When I started in May, it consisted of old Mr. Silas Abernetty, his grand-daughter Wilhelmina who was then nineteen years of age, Mr. Abernetty's niece Mrs. Barlow and her husband. Neither of those two are actually blood relatives; Mrs. Barlow was married to Mr. Abernetty's nephew Mr. Gareth, and he died in a railway accident. She and Mr. Barlow all but ran the household, fully after old Mr. Abernetty died in July. Old age, I hasten to add; he was over eighty, and the doctor was frankly surprised that he had made it that far. He indulged in many foods that were bad for him, especially pie.”

I could hear some bastard blue-eyed genius' smirk, damn him!

“What happened to young Mr. Abernetty's parents?” I inquired, pointedly not looking at someone.

“Mr. Silas Abernetty's only son William was in the Army, and died in that awful war against the Boers in the eighties”, Mr. Wilson said. “The first one, given the mess down there just now. I believe that his wife and the late Mr. Abernetty did not get on before that, and it worsened when she remarried within months of Mr. William's death, and chose to stay in Africa. Young Miss Abernetty was sent back to England, as she was then heiress to the estate.”

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully.

“Do you happen to know who is next in line after Miss Abernetty?” he asked. 

“Mrs. Balcombe, the cook, mentioned that there is a cousin living somewhere in the North of England, sirs”, he said. “She did not know where. She did say that he has never visited the house, and I know that he did not even get invited to the funeral. Mrs. Barlow makes no secret of the fact that she was not overly enamoured of the gentleman.”

“Curious”, Sherlock said. “What is your opinion of young Miss Abernetty, pray?”

The young man blushed.

“I have only seen her a few times”, he said. “She is not really your typical modern teenager, I would say; blonde, thin, learned and very quiet. She keeps to her own rooms, and does not go out. Mrs. Barlow is, ahem, rather strict.”

“And Mrs. Barlow – or her husband – still runs the estate for her?” Sherlock asked.

“Mrs. Balcombe believes that the estate was left jointly to her and the family lawyer to run”, the butler said. He extracted a notebook. “But to the events that bring me here. I should explain that I have a small room in the servants' quarters at Whitsun House. It is not locked as I have little there worth taking; besides, I have lodgings some three streets away.”

“At what address?” Sherlock asked.

“Number ninety-nine, Connecticut Crescent, Maida Vale.”

“Pray continue.”

“On Thursday October the fourth, someone entered my room at the house and looked through my few possessions. Nothing was, as far as I could gather, taken.”

“How do you know your room was searched?” I asked. He blushed again.

“I am, as you can see, a follower of your most interesting stories”, he said to me, looking far too ashamed for exhibiting such excellent taste ('someone' was smirking again, damn him!). “I always arrange my 'Strand” magazines in order of publication, and I keep a bookmark to show where I am up to. That particular day, I returned to my room, and not only were the books out of sequence, but the bookmark had fallen out. I eventually found it under the chair on the other side of the room, which I rarely use. I would not have mentioned it, but I know from your writings that small things are sometimes important. As I said, I keep only a few items in the room, so I was not surprised that nothing was taken; the magazines are probably the most expensive items there. And this was the day before the incident of the butter.”

“Go on”, Sherlock said.

“The next day Betty, the maid, took up some bread and butter for young Miss Abernetty”, he said. “It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and she or Mrs. Barlow usually sent down for cakes or refreshments of some sort around that time. Betty took them to Mrs. Barlow's room, which is next door to Miss Abernetty's, as per usual. When she came back, she said that Mrs. Barlow and her husband had been having 'a blazing row', and that the lady had told her to come back for the tray in an hour or so. She did, and then returned to the kitchen, where Mrs. Balcombe and I were taking tea. Miss Abernetty had eaten the bread and, I recall, used some of the butter, but the rest of the butter was partly melted. The parsley had sunk right into it.”

“In just one hour?” I asked, surprised.

“That was what was so odd”, our visitor said. “No-one thought much about it at the time however, because of the fair.”

“What fair?” Sherlock asked. The man blushed.

“Sorry”, he said. “Tolly warned me when I said I would approach you that I should not ramble. The next day, there was to be a fair held in the palace grounds. Mrs. Barlow had promised that we could all go in the afternoon if we got everything done in the morning and set out a cold buffet tea for him and his wife. However, that morning he came down and told us that Mrs. Barlow had 'moved out for some time alone'. Of course we all thought that that was our day out gone, but he said that if we prepared the buffet as arranged then we could go after all, as he would welcome the peace and quiet. Naturally no-one argued.”

“Naturally”, Sherlock smiled. “Two more questions, if I may. Is young Miss Abernetty seeing anyone?”

“Not a chance, with those two watchdogs!” the butler said fervently. “But with her wealth, I would expect lots of people to want to marry her. Especially if they could do so before she comes of age, and gain control of her fortune.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “And to finish. Did Mrs. Barlow take any of the servants with her?”

Our guest frowned.

“Now you mention it, that that was another odd thing”, he said. “Tom – Mr. Thompson, Mr. Barlow's valet – went with her, along with her own maid, Judith. I believe that she and her husband have a house in Chingford, in Essex, so I suppose that she went there. I know Tom did not like the master much, so perhaps that was why.”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “Your case is rather more complicated than some rapidly-sinking herbage, Mr. Wilson. Thank you for bringing it to our attention. We shall undertake to investigate it – but I should warn you, do not mention your visit here to anyone in Whitsun House. Not even to those you think that you may be able to trust.”

“I promise”, the butler said.

+~+~+

To my surprise, Sherlock did not seem to actually do anything in pursuit of the Abernetty Affair over the next few days. Indeed, the next development was a further visit from Mr. Lysander Wilson, precisely one week later.

“It is my half-day”, he explained, “and I did not want to attract suspicion by trying to contact you sooner.”

“What has happened?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing at the house”, our visitor said, “but I found something when I was tidying my room the other day. You will remember how I said that some of my magazines had been put back out of order?”

“Yes?” Sherlock said.

“I was looking for a particular story, and I realized that one or more of them was missing”, he said. "One from each of four editions was not there. The weird thing was that when I looked for them, I found them almost immediately. Someone had placed them in an empty drawer in my wardrobe. I just do not see why.”

Sherlock wandered back over to the window and gazed out onto the street. He had done that just after the butler arrived, I noticed. I wondered why.

“Which particular stories?” he asked without turning round. The butler took out and opened his notebook.

Part Three of “The Red-Headed League”. And Part Two of three stories; “Black Peter”, “The Hound Of The Baskervilles” and “The Empty House”.

I was becoming skilled by this time at reading Sherlock's face. Though there was not even the slightest twitch and he was side-on to me, I somehow knew that he had gathered something from that list. 

“Make a note of those, doctor”, he said, unnecessarily. “They may be important. Tell me Mr. Wilson, would either Mr. or Mrs. Barlow have had cause to enter your room for any reason?”

“No, sir. Though as the master and mistress of the house for now, they have the right to do so if they wish. As I said, I keep nothing there except for my books, and of course my work clothes which are their property.”

“Why do you keep your books there, rather than at your lodgings?” I asked.

“One of my fellow lodgers is rather light-fingered”, he said, blushing a little. “The only thing of any small value that I do own is a watch that belonged from my father, and I keep that at Whitsun House as well. It went originally to Tolly, but he is doing so well for himself nowadays that he passed it on to me.”

(I might also add at this point that Mr. Ptolemy Wilson's wife had last Christmas been safely delivered of a son, whom they had decided to call Sherman. Someone not a great distance away had most definitely sniffed when he had heard the news, and we had given the new arrival a pure silver christening set. The only depressing thing about this was that it meant the young man before us was, despite his tender years, already an uncle!).

Sherlock thought for a moment, then leant forward.

“Mr. Wilson”, he said, “we are entering an important phase in this investigation. You were right to take care, and not to rush over here. However, it is my belief that, for all that you have found so far, there may be an additional message located somewhere in your room. You must return to Whitsun House and search the room most thoroughly, from top to bottom. If you find something, be sure that no-one is around to witness it, and tell no-one, not even your fellow servants. Act as sagely as you have thus far, and use your next half-day to go to the telegraph office and communicate any findings with us.”

The man's eyes widened in fear.

“Should I not come here?” he asked.

Sherlock stood and went over to the window.

“You may have been followed here today”, he said. “That man loitering down in the entrance to the clothes-shop across the way is Feniton, a professional watcher. He was not there when you arrived – I checked – so presumably he lost touch with you somewhere and is guessing that you may have come here. The doctor will escort you out the back way, and show you the footpath across the railway to the Park; there is no way through to it from the street. Is there anything else of interest that has happened in the past week?”

The young man scratched his head.

“Well, there was the chocolate éclair.” 

I stared at him in surprise.

“What about it?” Sherlock asked.

“It happened two days ago, sir”, he said. “Miss Abernetty does not like anything with chocolate on, you see; I think that she may have one of those allergies. But we had a new maid start that week, Phyllis, and she took some out of the pantry and up to her. A good thing Mrs. Barlow was not in the house; she was always very strict about the poor girl's diet, though I always thought that was because it meant more food for her. Yet when the plate came back down, both éclairs were gone.”

“Possibly Mr. Barlow ate them?” I suggested. The butler shook his head.

“He was downstairs at the time, writing. He always locks the study door when he does his letters, so Philipson - the footman - says.”

“Leaving no-one to guard the precious Miss Abernetty”, Sherlock observed. “Thank you, Mr. Wilson. The doctor will show you out now.”

I did, taking the man out through the back door as requested. I noticed as we left that Sherlock was once more watching the street from the window, but did not remark on the fact. Our guest was nervous enough as it was.

+~+~+

“So what was with the magazines?” I asked on my return.

“A cry for help”, he said. “Vert cleverly done, too. Let us hope that it has not come too late.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“If you apply the part numbers to the titles, you get the words Hound, Empty, League and Peter”, he said. “The first letters of which make the word 'help'. Someone entered Mr. Wilson's room and deliberately selected those magazines, hoping both that he would come here and that he would convey the message.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Clearly it was young Miss Abernetty”, he said. “Consider the chain of events. Her grandfather dies, and his estate falls into the hands of his niece and her husband. They will be in control for a year at most, before their charge comes of age. Assuming that they have the lawyer in their pocket, they can use that time to strip it bare – but there is a problem. Their charge will not do as she is told. The law has thankfully progressed somewhat, and the signature of someone who is over eighteen but not yet twenty-one is needed on most documents.”

“She is being held prisoner?” I gasped. He nodded.

“It appears so”, he said gravely. “I really would like to search Mr. Wilson's room thoroughly myself, as I am sure that I would find her message more easily, but any suspicion of my involvement in the case would endanger young Miss Abernetty's life.”

“But if they killed her, the distant cousin would inherit”, I pointed out. 

“That may not stop them”, he said. “This is difficult. I would like to find out more about this cousin, but I fear that Mr. Wilson may call on me at any time despite my warning, and I do not want to leave Baker Street.”

“I can go to Somerset House”, I offered. “It is not far, and would not take me long.”

He smiled at me.

“Thank you, John.”

+~+~+

Some hours later, I hurried up the stairs and fairly burst through the door. Sherlock looked up in surprise.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I have found the cousin!” I panted. “A first cousin once removed, descended from the late Mr. Silas Abernetty's father James. He is a factory-owner called Mr. Gustavus Abernetty, and he moved down South six months ago. Guess where?”

“Chingford.”

I do not think that I have ever deflated so fast.

 _“You knew!”_ I said accusingly.

“I suspected”, he grinned. “Tell me what you found out about this new Abernetty.”

“He is forty-five years of age'”, I said, not pouting in frustration. “A widower; he some years ago married an heiress called Miss Bulstrode and inherited his factories from her, but sold nearly all of them off after she died two years back, except for a highly profitable one in London which he still owns. They make buttons.”

“A widower”, Sherlock said. “That is rather more serious, then.”

“Why?” I asked, puzzled.

“Because the Church of England would not prevent him from marrying his cousin, to keep the estate in the family”, Sherlock said grimly. “Their rules on such things are archaic, and I am sure that the Barlows could find a priest to carry out the ceremony, even if the girl made it quite clear that it was against her wishes.”

“Such a travesty would be overturned by any court!” I protested.

“Who would challenge it?” Sherlock said. “There would be no-one to defend the girl's interests, and I feel fairly certain that the poor thing would 'have an accident' not long after the wedding, in which case all her worldly goods would become her husband's. Except for a generous cut that he would doubtless pass onto the Barlows.”

“We would challenge it!” I said hotly.

“But they do not know of our involvement yet, and for the safety of the girl we must keep it that way”, Sherlock reminded me. “I wonder what Mr. Wilson will find when he gets back to Alexandra Palace tonight?”

+~+~+

Another week passed, and still Sherlock seemed surprisingly disinterested in the case. The only event of interest was that Sergeant Baldur called round, and told us that he was applying for promotion to inspector. He also brought some news of Sherlock's orphanage, which was having a major refurbishment at his expense. I nearly missed him as I had gone to the library to to do some research; unlike Henriksen our new policeman friend was wont to call on non-cake days!

Saturday was Mr. Wilson's day off, and I wondered if he would call round, despite the warning not to. The morning passed butler-less, but just after lunch he was announced.

“You were right on both counts, Mr. Holmes”, he said breathlessly. “I did find something, a hand-written note folded behind the chest of drawers.”

He handed it to Sherlock, who read it quickly before passing it to me:

 _'They want me to marry my cousin, Mr. Gustavus Abernetty. He is old, fat, bald and disgusting! I refused, but they said that they would do it anyway. I am afraid that they will drug me, and bribe a priest to do it for them. Help me!_  
_Wilhelmina Abernetty (Miss)'_

“You were right”, I told Sherlock. “What now?”

“Where is Miss Abernetty?” Sherlock asked urgently.

“She and Mr. Barlow had gone out for a drive when I left”, the butler said nervously. “You do not think....”

“This has gone on long enough”, Sherlock said grimly. “We will effect a rescue of the poor girl at once! Mr. Wilson, we will need your help.”

“Of course”, the butler said stoutly. “Er, how?”

“Because only you can recognize Miss Abernetty”, he said, as if it were obvious. “Come, doctor. We shall take a cab and fetch the girl from the clutches of those so-called 'guardians' of hers!”

+~+~+

“I was followed”, Mr. Wilson said. “But I took a trick out of one of your books, gentlemen, your Westmorland adventure. I went to Palace Gates Station and boarded a train at the back, then jumped out the other side and hid behind it. My pursuer did not alight, and I went to the Palace station on the Great Northern line instead. I only hope that I shook him off.”

“There was no-one outside when we left Baker Street”, Sherlock said. “I must say that this was all very cleverly planned. The Barlows knew that young Miss Abernetty would not fall in with their scheme to strip the estate bare, so they decided to force her into marriage with her cousin who, I am sorry to say, was all too willing to go along with this shameful scheme.”

“Despicable!” I ground out. Mr. Wilson nodded in agreement.

“They doubtless planned to remove her from the house and substitute Mrs. Barlow for a short time”, Sherlock went on. “The idea was that, a day before the fair, Mr. and Mrs. Barlow would stage a huge argument, after which she would storm out of the house and go to the house in Chingford. Then, when all the servants were away at the fair the following day, a drugged Miss Abernetty would be smuggled from the house and taken to Chingford, and Mrs. Barlow would take her place. Their watch on the girl was so close, the servants would not think it unusual not to see her for a while.”

“However, young Miss Abernetty chanced to overhear their scheming, and made counter-plans of her own. She knew that some of the servants were in the pay of her grasping relatives, so she quite sensibly selected the newcomer. She was the one who went into your room and artfully rearranged your books, moved certain magazines, and left the message behind the drawer. She also chose you because of your interest in my work, hoping – correctly – that her 'breaking and entering' would intrigue you enough to come to me.”

“She then returned to her room and ordered a plate of bread and butter. But she deliberately placed the plate over a table-lamp, so it partly melted. She foresaw, again correctly, that you, Mr. Wilson, would be intrigued by something so odd.”

The butler reddened, and looked out of the window.

“We have just passed King's Cross”, he said, surprised.

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “As I said, Miss Abernetty is being held prisoner in Chingford. We are headed to Liverpool Street, from where we will effect the rescue.”

He nodded.

“We will save her!” he muttered.

+~+~+

The suburban train journey from Liverpool Street seemed to take forever, but at last we were steaming into the Essex town's little terminus. I was more than a little surprised to find Sergeant Baldur waiting for us outside the station. The Metropolitan Police's local stations tended as I have observed more than once before to be fiercely territorial, and for one to affect an arrest on another's patch was considered unwarranted unless there was a very good reason for it. I would have asked Sherlock about it, but he was clearly focussed on the task ahead.

The four of us took two cabs to a quiet street called Essex Avenue, and stopped some distance away from a rather ugly large brick house that, Sherlock said, was where the cousin, Mr. Gustavus Abernetty, lived. To my surprise there was a cab waiting outside it, and as the four of us approached, two men and a woman came out of the house, the men dragging a barely-conscious girl between them.

“That is her!” Mr. Wilson ground out. “Miss Abernetty! Stop!”

The three people looked up at his shout, and the woman immediately ran back into the house and slammed the door. One of the men dropped his hold of the girl and advanced, but a clearly furious Mr. Wilson stepped forward and punched him so hard he fell to the floor motionless, moaning softly. Sergeant Baldur quickly had his cuffs out and on the other man, who put up no resistance. One of the policeman hurried into the house after the woman, whilst a second one raced around the back, presumably to preclude her escaping that way.

“Mr. Thomas Thompson, Mr. Gustavus Abernetty”, the sergeant said grimly. “I arrest you both in the name of the law. I will remind you that anything you say can and will be used in evidence against you.”

Mr. Gustavus Abernetty, presumably the handcuffed man from his age and better quality clothes, growled, whilst Mr. Thompson moaned again. Sherlock, apparently the only one of us with any sense, had rushed forward to help up the fallen girl, who uttered a pitiful cry. Mr. Wilson hurried to assist him.

“I really think that it would be best if you were to take young Miss Abernetty home now”, Sherlock said to the butler. “She has been through a most shocking ordeal. I am sure that the sergeant can collect any testimony from her a little later, once she is fully recovered.”

“That would be... nice”, the young lady said faintly, before looking vaguely at Mr. Wilson. “Do I know you?”

“Wilson, your butler, madam”, the man said, easily taking the girl's full weight as Sherlock stood back. “Do not worry. You are safe now.”

“Oh yes”, she giggled (I guessed that she had indeed been drugged). “Sandy. My hero!”

She giggled again and all but draped herself over the poor butler, who flushed bright red. Fortunately he was easily able to bear her weight, and with my help they made it to the cab and were driven off. 

What happened next left me speechless.

Once the cab was out of sight, the downed Mr. Thompson scrambled to his feet, apparently effecting a Lazarine recovery, and the other woman – the maid, Judith, I remembered – came out of the house and walked up to Sherlock. Sergeant Baldur swiftly removed the cuffs from Mr. Gustavus Abernetty. Sherlock smiled at them all.

“Thank you for all your help these past few weeks”, he said, handing each of the three some notes. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Doctor”, the sergeant whispered from behind me, “your mouth is hanging open!”

I walked round and stood in front of Sherlock, who looked at me innocently as the three people ambled back into the house. The sergeant was chatting amiably with his constables.

“Care to share?” I ground out. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Why, doctor”, he smiled, “I am doing what I always do, namely protecting the interests of my client. Miss Wilhelmina Abernetty.”

I was dimly aware that I was doing that goldfish impression again, but words failed me.

“Your..... client?” I managed at last. He nodded.

“She decided when she first saw him that she was going to marry Mr. Lysander Wilson”, he said. “But she quickly ascertained that her quarry was of the belief that the classes do not and cannot mix. So she came to me, and these last few months we, with the assistance of her most obliging family, have effected a plan to turn him from an ordinary English butler into a dashing hero who rescued her from the clutches of her evil, money-grubbing relatives.”

“Who were all in on it!” I said, grinding my teeth.

“Up to and including the men 'following' Mr. Wilson, yes.”

“Why did you not tell me?” I all but shouted.

“Because as I have said many a time, you are too honest”, he said with a smile. “You wear your heart on your sleeve. And you are infinitely believable when acting out a romantic scene like this one, which we had to make Mr. Wilson believe in.”

“But what when he finds out?” I asked.

“He will not”, Sherlock said. “Hence our old friend here rather than the local police, who might have actually tried to make a real arrest. Another satisfied client, I think. And I shall look forward to your writing up this case.”

“Harrumph!” I grunted.

+~+~+

I did not sulk all the way back to Baker Street. I was just a little annoyed.

All right, I was cross, and it was only made worse by the fact that I knew that Sherlock was right, damn him! I was hopeless at lying for any length of time, and my account of Sherlock's 'death' some nine years back had been rendered infinitely more believable because I had believed him dead when I had written it, even if some of the actual facts that I put out had been altered. But it still rankled that he had not trusted me.

He said nothing about my childishness, which was generous of him, but when I went to bed that night I pointedly closed the door behind me. Yes, I was being both petty and petulant, but then Mr. Darwin had said we were evolved from ape-like creatures that had fallen out of trees relatively recently on a geological time-frame, so I had the right.

I jumped when I felt Sherlock slipping into bed behind me, but remained facing away from him. 

“You are upset with me”, he whispered. I do not know why he always kept his voice low at times like these; our rooms were mercifully well removed from those of the house's other tenants, which was often just as well. He ran a hand down my back, and I shuddered.

“I just wish you had told me”, I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice, and failing miserably. “You are my true love, Sherlock.”

He slid a little closer, and I was about to turn to face him when I felt something. Reaching down, I felt around his waist, and what I found made all the blood in my body make a simultaneous bee-line for my lower brain so fast, my head actually ached.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Are you wearing.... my panties?”

“No, John.”

“But....”

“These are my own, John. Bought especially for you.”

I whimpered, then turned with surprising speed for a middle-aged man his late forties and pushed him over onto his back. He went willingly, a slow smile creasing his features.

“You do know that it will take more than that to win me over?” I said, trying to keep my cool. He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“Really?” he asked.

I snarled, and pushed his legs into the air, shoving the panties out of the way and pushing myself inside him – the bastard had prepared himself, which was damnably presumptuous of him. He grunted pleasurably, and I set about demonstrating to him just how annoyed I really was.

It was a very thorough demonstration. One I felt compelled to repeat. Twice.

+~+~+

Next, a man's political ambitions prove deadly.


End file.
